Young Writers Society

"Oh, really?" You begin to stand up.

He pushes you down with a grunt. "Yeah, really."

You quickly analyze your situation. "Can't we come to some sort of compromise? A truce?"

"Listen, bud," he says, looking at you with pitying eyes. "I don't make the rules. Either you eat the pie or I make you eat the pie. There ain't a 'third way,' a gray path. It's black and white, plain and simple. See, this is my house. And in my house, what I say goes -- understand?"

You nod.

"Now, I'm just following orders -- so I can't help you escape, or die easily. They told me, 'Make sure he overdoses on that pie, or it's your head.' I gotta admit, it seems a little harsh." He spreads his hands, eyes drooping sadly. "But it's the way it's gotta be."

"Orders?" you exclaim. "Orders from whom?"

"Orders from bossy boy, 'cross the sea."

"Yeah," he says, seeing the realization dawn on your face. "What'd I tell ya, kid? It is black 'n' white, innit?" He laughs, loud and booming, then abruptly stops -- he reaches over and picks up a pie from the table. "Open wide."

His meaty hand thrusts the pie into your mouth, forcing it down your gullet. You flail, choking on the apple goodness.

Gerald grabs both your arms with one hand and holds them tight.

"It'll all be over soon," he whispers. "Don't struggle. It's all right."

He's right -- it will be over soon; you can't breathe, can't fight back; this can't be the way you go out; no, you tell yourself, you can't... can't die this way...

Darkness creeps at the edge of your vision. Intense pain grips your chest -- air! Air! You psychically reach out to the edges of reality; someone out there must be able to hear you, to help you -- someone...?

... anyone?

Fift. Gerald collapses to the floor. You feel hands reach around you from behind. They push in on your stomach, and -- UP!

You fall to the floor in a coughing fit, a large chunk of pie having been dislodged from your air pipe. You manage to turn around, your eyes bulging wide in shock.

"Darling, I hardly care how important you are to my employer. If you made me break a nail..."

A woman, clad entirely in scarlet, stands before you examining her fingernails, a look of utmost self-importance upon her face. She gives you an evaluating glance.

"Really, you needn't look so surprised. I don't slack on the job, dear."

You notice that even her lipstick is red.

"Um... thanks?"

"Oh, quite welcome," she says, still fretting over her nails. She reaches into a pocket on her pantsuit and pulls out a small business card. She hands it to you. "Evelyn Fenway," she says; then adds a moment later: "That's my name."

You examine the card. "J. HENRY SHERBERT RESCUE CO." says the title.

"Yes," Evelyn says, "I don't like the card either. Hello! Tacky!" She giggles, as if she's said something utterly amusing.

You try and piece things together. "So do you mean... when I -- in my mind -- asked someone to help... does that mean -- ?"

"Hm? What are you trying to say?"

"Er -- nevermind." You look down to the floor where Gerald lies twitching. A metal dart protrudes from the back of his neck.

"Blowdart," Evelyn says, patting the pocket of her jacket. "He'll live; he's just paralyzed."

You shake your head in confusion. "Why'd you come here? Why'd you save me?"

"Employer business; told me I had to save someone named 'You.' Oh, just kidding, hon." She winks. "Seriously, though. I work at Sherbert, Co., and old Henry sent me to rescue you. I'm guessing you're important to some fat cat." She says all of this in a disinterested tone. "So anyway, we'd better get going if I'm going to bring you back."

"Wait, wait, wait." You hold up your hands in protest. "Bring me back where? And why? I hardly even know you and you want to whisk me off somewhere?"

"Back to company headquarters."

You're terribly confused.

"Listen, I don't know any more than you do. I'm just doing my job."

"And besides," she says as she glances out a window, "it's going to storm soon. Come on." She grabs your hand and yanks you toward the door. "We'd better get moving."

You follow reluctantly.

She's right about the storm. The clouds above are heavy and bloated. You know how they feel; that pie sloshes around in your stomach with every step you take.

Evelyn pulls you across the large grass field that lies behind Gerald's house.

"How -- how far away is headquarters?" you pant.

"Not far, if we take the shortcut."

"Shortcut?"

"The skywalk." She points in the distance. What looks like a rainbow-coloured slide stretches down from the clouds to the ground. "That's the entry ramp. Once we're up in the clouds we'll be able to bypass the mountains and come down on the other side. That is, if the locals cooperate."

"Locals?"

Evelyn glances back at you, eyebrow raised. "Have you ever ventured out of your house?"

You blush and lower your head.

"Yeah, the locals. They're not crazy about visitors, to say the least. I haven't taken the skywalk in a while, so this is a gamble. Stay close to me and with any luck we'll get through quick."

The entry ramp grows larger and larger as you walk toward it, and by the time you reach the base it towers over you, a tye-dye monument made of melted crayons. It slopes, ever-so-gradually, into the clouds that bristle with moisture.

A bird flies by with a caw, and it is only then that you realize how sickeningly tall it truly is. Even your treehouse home pales in comparison.

Evelyn pulls your hand. "Come on." She stands on the ramp's gleaming surface.

You're hesitant to take the first step. That would mean commitment. "Aren't there any guardrails?" you say, shielding your eyes with your hand to look up into the mist.

"Honey, I've complained before and it didn't do any good. But once we get up there, if you wanna fill out the form, I'm sure they'll rethink their mistake."

"Sarcasm never helped anyone," you grumble.

You begin climbing. Your shoes have a great deal of trouble gaining traction on the slippery, plastic-like surface, and you fall to your knees more than a few times.

Evelyn, on the other hand, walks with an easy, steady gait. You have trouble keeping up.

The higher you go, the wetter the air becomes. You've always wondered what going through a cloud would feel like. Now you know: hot and humid.

"How much further?" you complain thirty minutes later.

"Not far." She points to the ground. The mishmash of colours is gradually dulling to a plainer white-gray as the slope levels out. An image enters your mind: a sickly, overlong tongue lolling out of a feverish head.

Now that you aren't going uphill, you have a chance to catch your breath. "What's holding all this up?"

"Hm? Oh -- red, mostly. Purple helps too. Yellow and green are too indecisive and wobbly to help much, and blue is strong but lazy. As for cyan, well, no one really understands cyan."

It isn't long before you're standing in front of a plain metal gate. The ground here is entirely white.

"What goes there?"

You take a step towards Evelyn. That voice didn't sound particularly nice.

A man steps out of the fog. He's dressed in clothes so white he practically blends in with the cloud around him. You can just vaguely make out his face, contorted in an expression of shock, in between the bars of the gate.

"Colours!" he exclaims.

"Sir," Evelyn says quietly, "we'd just like a passage through the mountains."

"I am not sure whether to be appalled by your brazen affront to decency and goodness or delighted by your fortunate timing. Come in, come in!" He disappears for a moment and the gate swings open without a sound.

You shoot Evelyn a dubious look. She shrugs.

The humidity, the fog, everything that would indicate you were inside a cloud, disappears as you step beyond the gate. The change is so sudden and dramatic that you have to look back just to be sure you haven't accidentally stepped through some hidden portal to another world.

If it's not another world, it's close. A city, you realize. That's what it is. A majestic, awe-inspiring, blindingly white and clean city. The light is the most puzzling part: you can't determine its source, and yet it's so bright you have to squint and shield your eyes just to face it. It's as if an army of camera flashes decided to pitch tents and camp in the most irritating place possible.

"I'll lower the lights a bit," the man's voice says somewhere at your shoulder.

Things dim. Now you can make out the sharp edges of the buildings and see the rigid, imposing form of architecture these people favour.

And speaking of people: there are none to be seen.

"It is a Holy Day," the man says, as if reading your thoughts. "Most are at worship, as they should be." He gazes at the landscape, seemingly entranced.

"Sir?" Evelyn says.

"Oh. Yes! Come with me." He walks briskly down the street and enters a building on the left. You and Evelyn follow.

This building's interior displays, as does the city, a conspicuous lack of colour. Even the wood frame around a black-and-white photograph is painted gray.

"Priest!" The man is yelling into a hallway on your right. "Priest, we have visitors."

Another man emerges: old, white beard, wrinkled face, black robe. He performs a little hop backwards when he sees you, but soon composes himself.

"Esteemed guests," he says, bowing, "we welcome you to our humble city."

You don't like this man. His eyes dart back and forth nervously, and his smile is a tad off-balance, as if a heavy weight is resting on one side.

"Ted, I would like you to take our friends to their place of lodging."

"Oh," Evelyn says, "we're just passing through. We'd just like to get over the mountains."

"No, no, I insist. We would love to have you stay for a day or two. It will be splendid fun."

* * * *

The moon's scattered glow leaks in through the window and illuminates your aching legs. This cot is uncomfortable, your mind is uneasy, and your stomach is leading a full-scale revolt. You can't remember the last time you've been this unhappy. Why did I have to leave home? you think. You miss your tree, your sunshine. You miss your boss -- your boss who is in another dimension. You even miss your paperwork.

But as you turn to look through the metal bars and out into the concrete hallway, every other concern is drowned by a flood of regret: You wish you had never caught a whiff of that unbelievably good pie.